


Right where God intended me to be

by todd whyard (deanwin)



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Guilt, I just couldn't get this idea out of my head, M/M, Masturbation, Might be edging towards hurt/comfort, Sex Work, Voyeurism, but the entire first chapter is about 2017 polygon and the precarity of labour under capitalism, camboy!pat, i wanna say i'm genuinely sorry, this might be rock bottom, tricked ya, ugh actual tags, you might think this is gonna be horniness, yup. gather ye around good people and see how i singlehandedly kill this tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanwin/pseuds/todd%20whyard
Summary: Look, this wasn't Pat's first choice of side hustle, but sometimes things just worked out. What millennial hasn't given it a thought at some point or other? The plan is to make a few extra bucks for a couple of months, just until things get a bit more stable. It's not like anyone is going to find out...---Take me out back and shoot me, friends, I've hit my breaking point. This is camboy!pat, might be smut, who knows, it's 1am and I can't make good choices





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, it's 1am  
> My punctuation and syntax are gonna be wack in this one until I edit it, this is essentially an hour and a half of automatic writing while possessed by the literal devil 
> 
> Sexwork is cool and valid and sexworkers are very cool and very valid and this is in no way meant to portray it as a bad thing! If I fucked sth up lmk, I'm sleeby and not up for doing research rn. Also I've never written legit smut so who knows how explicit this is gonna be
> 
> CW for mentions of IRL mid-2017 polygon n*** r******n drama, and lots of artistic liberties are taken with Pat's personal life bc i don't wanna know
> 
> Any resemblances to actual human people are not accidental but definitely insubstantial. We're just making sock puppets smooch here, move along folks.  
> If you are or know any of these people please run away quickly, yadda yadda

To say that Pat's year is rapidly turning to shit would be putting it mildly. Any _one_ of the things on his radar individually would be enough to make a lesser - or less emotionally constipated - man break down and cry.

Nearing a full year of gainful employment at your dream job is stressful in its own way, with performance reviews aplenty and the incessant whispers of impostor syndrome in the back of your mind. But things had been looking good! The videos he'd worked on were helping Polygon's weird, eccentric brand gain traction, Pat was - for the first time since college - actually feeling confident in his ability to actually create good films, even if they were decidedly _not_ what he'd expected. Getting to attend E3 for the first time was the perfect encapsulation of the sheer insanity of the situation. He felt like _part_ of the industry, of the community, and sure, he might not be going viral at the same rate as Griffin did, but he was helping to make it possible! Never one for jealousy, this was just about as perfect a situation as he would've dared to hope for.

And then calamity struck.

A coworker getting fired is always tough. The firing being unexpected is tougher. It's even worse when you consider the person a friend and have made numerous videos with them. When you find out the firing is absolutely justified because said coworker and friend was actually a gross creep using the popularity you partly helped him gain to harass and prey on fans and colleagues? It puts a bit of a damper on your relationship to your job, and on your ability to ever fucking trust people. Gone is the wide-eyed, bushy-tailed Pat who is just _so glad_ to actually be working in the industry he admired from afar for so long, hello Mr. No Personal Details Unless I'm Held at Gunpoint. 

And so Polygon is suddenly a video producer short, the fandom is on fire and NDA's have been signed before anyone had time to consider them in any depth because everyone just looks _raw_ and so, so tired. And there's radio silence. The higher-ups are probably holding more meetings than Pat's attended in his life. A deep, dark part of him is grateful that he doesn't have to be there. Doesn't have to force the very real guilt and pain and _anger_ he feels into boardroom-acceptable terminology like "changes in strategy" and "adjustments in content production," because if he had to reconcile the disgust and betrayal in his gut with the phrase "potential severance pay," he might just scream. 

So maybe his job being hastily restructured to adjust for certain... changes in team-composition, so to say, hasn't been the best for Pat's mental health. Maybe his mental and emotional health in general has been a bit... iffy even before that, a merry cocktail of depression and the standard drudgery and terror of surviving in a city built to tear you apart. And maybe his relationship hadn't been looking all too great even before then. And maybe, just maybe, sometimes marriages aren't meant to last forever, and sometimes you hate your partner's cat, and sometimes things just build up until the point where salvaging the situation is pointless. 

And so papers are signed, leases are unceremoniously terminated, and Pat's suddenly, undeniably alone for the first time in years. 

He'll have to vacate the apartment as soon as possible, as soon as he has found a room to rent somewhere, anywhere. Because anything is better than a half-emptied apartment meant for two, with nothing but bitter memories and the terrifying sense of _relief_ he feels. Or would feel, if he could take a moment to really examine his emotions in any depth for a second, if he could stop focusing on the fact that rent is twice as high suddenly, his hours are significantly cut down for the next "four to six weeks, just until new plans are made, until then we'll fill the roster with live video, it's less labour intensive", and he will need a deposit for the new place. His savings are really going to go up in smoke, fuck.

It's a sweltering summer, the year that started as one of the best in Pat's life has gone to shit at such a rate that it's almost funny, and he has just finished moving into a tiny room in a tiny flat, with a nice roommate who works even more eccentric hours than Pat.

There is no shame in a 30 year old man who's down on his luck getting a loan from friends or family, or his amazing little credit union. But student loans are already a bitch, his credit score has been shot to hell since the second he chose a career in "New Media", and being hungry might be bad, but it's not ask-your-hardass-veteran-dad-for-money bad.

A potential bandaid, not a solution, presents itself in between looking for side hustles that won't utterly wreck his bad knee and- and crying on the floor, okay, he can admit it, even an emotionally repressed asshole has his breaking point. The bandaid is flimsy, built on hopes, dreams, and prayers. Built on the hope that he's built up enough name recognition and goodwill from fans that they would support him outside of regular office hours.

So he starts his Twitch channel. Well, he streams twice, then drops it for three weeks, then starts back up because it's weird being a 30 year old on a platform seemingly built for teenagers to scream racist slurs at each other, but it's preferable to moving back to Maine.

No one is more surprised at the fact that Pat genuinely _loves_ streaming than Pat. It's not like it's a surprise he enjoys games, they are his entire job after all, it's just that he'd gotten so used to being behind the camera, or a part of a greater ensemble, that sitting there for two solid hours, entertaining at first a few dozen people _on his own_ should be terrifying. But within a few streams it just isn't. It's the most natural thing in the world to idly prattle on about his day, about Charlie, never anything even remotely heavy. The tips aren't a lot, of course. He's just gotten started, he's a virtual nobody from a corporate youtube channel that has spent much of the summer in a haze of gossip, drama and disgrace. It's a minor miracle anyone followed him over to twitch anyway.

But steadily the tips build up to just about cover the gap in his paycheck left by his cut hours. It won't get him back on his old health insurance plan, but with the divorce that was already a done deal. It should be easy enough not to break something for a few months until he gathers the wherewithal to work through the literal mountains of leftover paperwork and get that sorted out.

So the tips are flowing somewhat steadily, and things aren't _great_ and sure, he's usually in the red by the end of the month, but it's life. So when certain... larger tips start popping up occasionally, and the average viewership is steadily increasing _relief_ doesn't even begin to cover how he feels.

The first few times he received more than a 10$ tip he'd messaged the folks privately, making sure it was actually intentional. It was, they all said. And Pat's just human. It feels fucking amazing to spend a few hours playing and chatting and to be showered in positivity, compliments, and yes, cold hard cash. 

So now he's a month into living with a roommate he hardly sees, strangers on the internet are throwing money at him just for _being,_ and he sees a shiny light on the horizon: the impossible dream of maybe not just scraping by, not just hoping that his pay covers rent, but that it actually lets him live like a person. 

Things change almost accidentally. The Discord he's just set up is still sparse, and he hasn't got all that many subs anyway, so sure, he ends up chatting with the high-level donors a bit. And things escalate, just the tiniest bit. He's just been through a divorce, okay? A little positive attention feels nice, and _oh boy he's flirting with one of his tippers isn't he oh dear_. The first time it happens he spends the rest of the evening in a bit of a bleated bisexual awakening/crisis, because this feels both new and frightening and also like what he's been wanting to do for so long.

The coy teasing and flirting over messages with the handful of faceless people who are regularly dropping hundreds of dollars on him should feel transactional, maybe, but it doesn't. Well, it does, but it doesn't feel bad, or shameful. It just feels like appreciation and class-solidarity and _yup I'm using leftist language to justify the fact that I'm supplementing my income with donations from people who like looking at me and I'm perfectly fine with this, huh._

He's not lucky enough to have found a rent-controlled building to live in when he was desperately searching for a place to live. He has a geriatric cat whom he loves more than anything but who requires rather frequent vet visits. His savings are completely gone, and even though work is slowly going back to normal, viewership on the main channel has plummeted, and engagement rates look like they might never recover.

 _This feels like it was inevitable_ , he thinks to himself, as he's trying to figure out how the camboy-site one of his more affluent subs _subtly alluded to_ in one of their private conversations works. He should be worried, maybe. After all, what if someone somehow shows up uninvited? The odds are astronomical, but Pat's been having enough of a Year to be slightly paranoid. But pragmatism wins out. Or better yet, an intoxicating cocktail of pragmatism and sheer _excitement._ As he works out a way to artfully splay himself before the camera while also obscuring his face and any distinguishing features he's just about vibrating with joyous anticipation.

There's probably only going to be like 3 guys, and he's talked to them, they've given him money before, but it still feels surreal and amazing that they _want_ to look at him. Not because they have to, not because they signed a piece of paper in a Maine church fresh out of high school, but because they actually want Pat. He can feel his dick slowly beginning to pay attention, and he gives himself a gentle squeeze, careful not to work himself up too much just by thinking about what he's about to try.

So he takes a few more deep breaths, checks his camera, makes sure he's satisfied with the way he looks, all pale limbs barely covered by his grey boxer shorts and tank top, his hair just about visible despite the dim light in the room, brushing against his prominent collarbones as he leans forward to press "Stream."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juggling essentially three related-but-firmly-separated streaming jobs isn't easy, and retiring from two of them to have some time to himself would be very obvious, so the one that gets docked is the one that's honestly the most fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea for how to make this scenario play out with minimal plot contrivances has manifested in my brain and I need to ride out this wave of not-writer's-block for as long as I can before I disappear again.  
> I could've edited chapter one instead of writing this one but ehhhhh  
> Also this one is definitely... significantly hornier than the first one, but I don't think it reeeally warrants an E so we're sticking with Mature here folks, lmk if that should change

This wasn't Pat's first choice of side hustle. It probably wouldn't have even entered into consideration just a few months earlier. But after a few mental breakdowns and sternly worded letters from his credit union, alongside his newly acquired understanding of his own bisexuality? It turns out to be pretty damn great.

What desperate millennial hasn't made a joke about becoming a stripper if their other plans don't work out? And of course he knows better now, knows the kind of talent and endurance and sheer _awesomeness_ required of actual strippers, knows his skinny ass would probably have an anxiety attack if ever faced with a pole and a crowd. But even if the jokes were borne out of ignorance and parroting media tropes, the underlying sentiment is actually... pretty damn understandable.

So he gets into the groove, hosting after-hours streams for high-rolling subscribers and the occasional lucky bastard who stumbled upon little ol' him amidst a sea of tens of thousands of thumbnails of younger, fitter, hotter twinks. It never stops being amazing and confusing and overwhelming that people choose to look at _him_ over all those others. He's always had a weird love-hate relationship with himself, and that absolutely extends to his looks, even if he's got himself at least somewhat figured out by now. Nonetheless, the validation is intoxicating. Knowing that he can wrap up his gaming stream, quickly shower and get changed, and that people will be eagerly waiting for him almost gets to his head.

He might not really think himself hot shit, but it's fun to pretend for thirty minutes three times a week. The financial incentive isn't bad either. In fact, it's just about the only thing that broke through his anxiety those first few streams.

At first it's mindbogglingly, blisteringly _hot_ and overwhelming to think that he is _actually doing this and five people are watching me jack off in front of my laptop right now, the fuck?_ and he barely makes it halfway through his planned time before spilling all over himself, to the tune of tips flying in and a steady stream of chat egging him on.

It never really stops being ridiculously exciting, and it's probably the most pleasurable job he's ever had. He even invests some of the hard-earned (ha!) cash in some sex toys, experiments with sucking down a dildo as far as he can, and with paddles and floggers he brings down hard on his own ass. But delivering a convincing blowjob performance without the upper half of your face in frame, trying to maintain at least a modicum of plausible deniability about your identity in case your bosses find this, is hard. And most of the time he'd prefer to just be the one doling out the spankings. So the toys get retired for the most part pretty quickly, only making the odd guest appearance when a sub asks _very_ nicely or when Pat's feeling particularly rowdy and has no way of working off that chaotic energy.

For the most part, though, it's pretty vanilla. Well, as vanilla as public masturbation can be. Just Patrick, sitting on his bed, leaning against some pillows and talking to the camera in that low, soft voice he usually only breaks out for jokes, thanking his viewers profusely and laughing at their jokes, no matter how bad, as he's slowly massaging the very prominent bulge in his boxers for all to see.

It always goes like this, he starts the stream, chats with them and lets his hand slide over to his crotch almost as if unconsciously. It took a few tries to get it right, but it turns out acting like you forgot you're not supposed to be touching yourself while talking to someone? Gets them pretty hot and bothered. So he answers any questions from chat, especially happy to snatch up the more explicit ones and answer them in as much detail as possible as he works himself up more and more. It's a pretty good system they've developed: even if he is overacting a little, Pat knows he can be pretty honest on here, and that he can cut streams off early if he's really not feeling it. The rules are simple: the boxer shorts (or on a few memorable occasions, panties) stay on until a certain amount of tips is reached, or until Pat is so horny he can't keep teasing himself; no mentions of this are allowed on public platforms, even as a joke: noncompliance means losing your After Dark privileges; and finally, No Work Talk.

It works pretty well the vast majority of the time. It's surprising how little people who ostensibly got here through his day job care about said day job when he's flushed, sweaty, his hand wrapped tight around his dripping cock, long fingers brushing over the head to get some much desired extra lubrication as he increases his pace frantically, muttering about how _good this feels, oh god guys I'm so close. I'm so close, I wanna come for you, please, do you want me to come for you now?_

It might be overacting a little bit, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world when he's doing it. The early teasing and constantly evolving way he presents himself from week to week, contrasted with the just overwhelming _sincerity_ he feels when he's thanking these faceless people for _taking care of me, so good, thank you, thank you_ as he winds down, it's all a bit much, a bit overwhelming, and the cause of many a sleepless night as he tries to figure out how exactly he wants to fuck and be fucked in his actual life. 

But it mostly feels really fucking good. Regardless of whether he's three fingers deep, needy, whimpering and calling everyone in chat _daddy_ as he begs them for permission to come, or if he's grumpy from work and adopts a straighter posture, a more clipped, strict voice as he unceremoniously jacks himself off while being downright _mean_ to the viewers, they always eat it right up.

\-----

So Pat's having the time of his life after hours, showered with praise and attention in carefully curated amounts, his account balance is better than ever, and things at work are slowly beginning to look up. What looked like it might end in disaster is slowly, almost imperceptibly drifting back towards normalcy.

It's how Pat has gotten out of most crises: without noticing things were actually improving until one morning he wakes up without the sinking feeling of anxiety burning in his lungs. And things don't stop there; don't stop with him not feeling like he's dying and will lose his entire livelihood any second. No, instead it actually gets _better._

Sure, things are different, but after everyone has recuperated emotionally at least somewhat it was all hands on deck when it came to saving this strange and wonderful thing they'd built. It's early winter, he and Simone had just wrapped on an episode of Video Game Theatre when Tara breaks the news that he's being promoted. It's mostly a formality, a change in name only, because he'd already been live-producing the hell out of Polygon without being dubbed Live Video Producer, but it also brings along a not insignificant raise.

So suddenly his pay is better, somehow, incomprehensibly, he's been here long enough to actually have benefits and _seniority_ and also Polygon will be hiring new producers to liven things up and help with the workload! Pat suspects it has less to do with the workload and more with the strangely distant and exhausted looks he sees in Griffin and Justin's eyes whenever they speak, the way every cell in their bodies is seemingly screaming at them to _take a fucking break._ So Pat reckons they will, sometime soon, but they don't want to leave the company high and dry without figuring out the line of succession. Polygon was their baby after all.

Pat's not directly involved in the hiring process, barely hears about prospective candidates they're interviewing, and he's grateful for it. With the hours he's working, both on and off the clock, he can't imagine making decisions about anyone's future but his own.

After several weeks of too much stress, too little sleep, coupled with the realization that his actual paycheck is enough to live on now and that his twitch audience seems to be growing, Pat plans his farewell tour. Sunsetting his (astonishingly lucrative) porn career after mere months is harder than he thought it would be. It was never meant to be a long-term plan, but he's gotten attached. Despite the sentimentality, he announces his decision to a disappointed, but heartbreakingly understanding audience. 

To say he goes above and beyond for the last three streams would be putting it mildly. He was never one for theatrics or costumes beyond his standard briefs-and-top uniform, but he treats the viewers to a full striptease in the same outfit he'd worn in a video he'd just put up that day. It might have been a cheap trick, playing on the sense of immediacy and realness this gave them, but it was for his own benefit too.

He breaks out the dildo and flogger for one last ride, but the final video is a return to form: him saying his goodbyes while slowly getting more and more worked up, hand pulsing against the bulge in his briefs. When it's all over he wishes them a good night, his lower lip bitten and red, streaks of come still painted across his bare chest, and just like that it's done.

It's not that he forgets about his brief excursion into the camboy life, it's more that he files it away, satisfied. After all, his day job is taking more out of him, the new hires are expected to start in a week and will need to be trained, so he can't really dwell on his choices.

\-----

The new kids aren't just good; they're _radiant._ Jenna's intimidatingly cool at first, only to reveal a brilliant analytic mind and kind heart, and Brian-- 

Well, Brian David Gilbert is the bane of Pat's existence.

By all accounts he should hate the kid. You see, they fill the same niche. They're nerdy, ambiguously queer white guys working for a video game channel. They're the same archetype, but Brian is _better._ He's younger, quicker, louder, musically talented where Pat is paralyzed by anxiety at the mere thought of performance. Pat thinks should feel threatened, should engage in bullshit macho posturing, highlight his seniority and try to convince himself he still has a place in the company. 

But he doesn't, because he doesn't have to. Because against all odds, this ridiculously smart and talented kid is also really, really nice. Pat doesn't _choose_ to become friends with him, much how one doesn't _choose_ whether it rains today. It just happens, inevitable.

So he doesn't hate him, which is where the problems start. Because Pat is old enough to recognize when his heart is getting ready to pull some real stupid bullshit, but not wise enough to do anything about it. So instead of staying work friends, he starts hanging out with the kid. At first it's just going to a bar after work, but a few short weeks in? It's hanging out in the den after hours or at each other's place playing Smash for hours at a time. 

Pat's not exactly a stupid man, but he for sure is a dumbass.

The kind of dumbass that keeps memes on his work computer, but meticulously scrubs his history and doesn't do anything incriminating on it, reserving that for the hot garbage fire that is his personal laptop. The kind of dumbass that would never access his side hustle from said work computer, but casually hands his personal laptop to his hot young coworker while they're hanging out at Pat's place, because Brian wanted to check something or other.

Pat would like to take this opportunity to freeze time, leap across the room from where he had gotten up to get more drinks, slam the laptop shut and maybe also personally kill whoever came up with the algorithm that chooses what entry from his browsing history to autofill the Chrome searchbar with. He doesn't know what Brian is going to type, but there is a nonzero chance it's going to include a letter from the URL to his old side hustle. Any reaction would probably only draw more attention to it. Maybe he'll get lucky and Brian will not notice any of the recommended URLs. Maybe Brian is secretly 45 and has actually pulled up Google. Maybe, maybe maybe.

So instead of spontaneously combusting, or breaking his laptop, or yelling "Wait stop!" he just freezes. All he can do is grin and bear it. Seconds pass. Brian starts typing, pauses, continues. The pause is minor, but it's there.

 _Maybe he lost his train of thought,_ Pat thinks. _Or maybe he saw an autocomplete URL for a site that can only be gay porn and is trying to figure out how to get out of the awkwardness ASAP,_ the more pessimistic part of his brain supplies.

But the moment passes, and Brian doesn't say anything, doesn't run away in terror. Maybe he looks slightly flushed or stares at Pat a bit longer than usual, between rounds of Smash but it's hard to judge that. So they just hang out for a few hours, just like they normally do, and Pat heaves a sigh of relief as he closes the door behind Brian.

\-----

Brian desperately wants to run away.

Not in terror, not even panic, just because of the way certain paradigm shifts can really fuck you up for a second sometimes. And the paradigm shift from "Pat Gill, my kinda longtime creative crush and now coworker is straight and I am fine with pining from afar" to "Pat's browser just autofilled a URL I most definitely recognize from my own browsing habits and may therefore Not Be As Straight As Previously Assumed" is jarring to say the least.

So when Brian gets home he wrestles with himself, and not in the fun way. Brains are good at pattern recognition, so he basically 360-no-scoped the website as soon as he saw it from the corner of his eye. This is fine, he knows it's a cam aggregate, it's fine, it's just porn. Camboy porn, but still, just porn, most people watch it, it's no big deal, _Brian._

What is _less_ fine and is the current cause of his dilemma is the _exact_ URL his borderline eidetic memory has burned into his brain. Because isn't _that_ a conundrum. You have the power to see exactly what kind of porn your crush likes, because apparently Pat looks up a certain account frequently enough for his browser to autofill the address. You have the power to know precisely if you might be his type, so do you do it?

Brian likes to think of himself as a person who respects boundaries. He doesn't like his neck touched, some people aren't big on hugs, it's fine, he gets it. So it feels iffy to look up the page. What purpose could it possibly serve?

He stands to gain nothing, because even if Pat is into wild-eyed twinks with floppy hair and a desperate desire to please, doesn't mean he's going to be into Brian specifically. And what if Pat's type are the muscly gym bros the wrestlers he likes look like? It might be good to know he stands no chance, but it's not like Brian assumed he did! He thought the man was a Straight Man (tm) until a few short hours ago, for crying out loud!

He types and deletes and retypes the URL from memory a few times, never hitting enter, not ready to commit. Brian feels ridiculous, frankly. It's in this moment of frustration that he opts for laughing at himself and the universe.

 _God, it's fucking_ fine _if I see what porn Pat likes, this isn't going to change anything, and maybe if I get off before bed, I'll actually get some sleep._ He huffs, satisfied with the solution his overworked brain has reached, and hits enter.

He doesn't see what porn Pat likes.

That much is clear the _millisecond_ the page loads the first thumbnail despite Brian's apartment's shitty wifi.

No.

It's neither a beautiful twink or muscly daddy that Brian can't compete with. Brian's pretty sure his brain stops functioning for a second and all his vital functions just... choke.

He sees thumbnails to a few dozen videos, all dimly lit. But he can still make out the room. He knows that room. In fact, he was in it, playing Smash and giggling at Pat's jokes just a few hours ago.

Much more recognizable than the room is the man sitting on the bed in front of the camera. His face is out of frame, he's artfully positioned in a way no one ever is in their day-to-day life, but Brian has spent enough hours staring distractedly at Pat Gill's chest and collarbones that there is absolutely no doubt in his mind.

He's _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the thing  
> i'm apparently going for several thousand words without writing dialogue. i'm fine w this if y'all are.  
> The plot contrivance is mostly inspired by the fact that one time allegra was looking sth up on a stream and the chrome searchbar autofilled the relatablepicturesofpatgill tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian hasn't spent this much time freaking out about his sexuality since freshman year of high school.
> 
> This chapter contains: scenes that are slapstick if you think about them for .5 seconds, and lots of lists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to post from my phone, if you opened this and the formatting was fucky pls refresh, I had to manually put in italics and paragraph breaks again
> 
> The people want porn, so I give you POV shifts and guilt instead.  
> I was hoping to make this 3 chapters, but we need at least one or two more to actually resolve all the emotions. I can't jump straight to boning if there's anxiety to be written lmao  
> This chapter is barely at a T rating, but it's all ~emotions~ from Bri
> 
> Check the end notes for a vaguely spoilery disclaimer

Jonah comes into Brian’s room approximately five minutes after there’d been a yelp and a loud crashing noise. Not because of the noise itself, he’s really not surprised by any strange sounds coming from Bri’s room at all hours, but because they’re usually at least accompanied by a shout of “Everything’s fine!” or a text to the group chat just reading “ _i think im gonna get back into gymnastics.”_

This time, Brian’s been uncharacteristically quiet, and the crash sounded less like someone falling on their ass while attempting a handstand, and more like something being _thrown_. So yeah, Jonah’s slightly amused, slightly concerned. It edges more towards concern when Brian absolutely does not respond to his knocking.

It might be bad roommate etiquette, but they’ve known each other since freshman year, and he’s seen Brian in every compromising position imaginable. So he just opens the door.

The current compromising position is one Jonah has only seen the likes of once before. Brian is sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clutching at his hair as he is very visibly _freaking the fuck out_ , his laptop roughly three feet away on the floor. Now, Jonah’s no forensic scientist, but he’s pretty sure whatever course of events lead to his best friend looking borderline hysterical went as follows:  
1\. _Brian’s sitting on the edge of his bed_  
_2\. His laptop is charging in his lap_  
_3\. He’s using said laptop_  
_4\. Something happens_  
See, that’s the part where Jonah is going to need some help filling in the blanks. Because the last time he saw Brian this freaked out it was just after he sent in his video cover letter for Polygon and immediately went from hopeful and proud to an anxious mess. He can still picture Brian in essentially the same position as now, laptop slammed shut and thrown to the side as he whimpered,

“ _Oh jesus Jo what did I do this was so stupid whycouldn’tIjustdoanormalcoverletter oh god what if they think it’s like super disrespectful that I didn’t follow the recommended format I can’t believe I’ve blown my only chance by being so self-involved and dramatic oh god oh god—"_

Of course Jonah and Laura had reassured him and helped him work through the anxiety attack, but it wasn’t really until he’d gotten the job that Brian had truly let go of that fear. Jonah really hopes it’s going to be easier this time, hopes nothing big has happened, because he hates seeing Brian like this; caught up in his own doubts to the point where his radiant personality is _muted_ , his entire being seemingly being forced to be smaller. Brian’s an anxious person at the best of times, but he usually rolls with the punches, laughs off his own insecurities, turns them into gold, turns them into _content_.

So yeah, step 4: _Something happens_. It’s unclear to Jonah what it was, but it was something beyond the scope of Brian’s normal abnormal stress levels. The final steps though, those are clear as day:

5\. _Brian lets out a yelp (so loud that Jonah could hear it from the living room)_  
_6\. He slams the laptop shut and_  
_7\. He shoves it off his lap, leading to the crashing noise (also audible in the living room)_  
_8\. Brian begins freaking the fuck out about aforementioned something._  
This reconstruction of events doesn’t take long, and before Jonah has even committed to finding out what made Brian freak out he’s already next to him on the bed, reassuring him and petting his hair. Well. Reassuring him and gently extracting Brian’s own hands from where they’re firmly clenching his hair by the roots as he’s freaking out.

“Brian. Hey, Bri, you’re okay, everything’s fine. You’re in your room, you’re safe, it’s okay. Deep breaths, c’mon. What’s wrong?”

Jonah’s heard Brian fighting to reign in his breathing enough times to know what it sounds like, but there’s something heartbreaking about it every time. He can tell he’s gotten through to Brian, because he’s instantly trying to force his breathing into a more normal pattern, and of course, as always, the first words he gets out are

“I’m fine, everything’s okay,” made slightly less believable by his laboured gasps.

It takes about five minutes of guiding Brian through his breathing exercises to get him to a point where he’s _actually_ fine (said point always being marked by Brian no longer breathlessly insisting that he’s fine and that nothing is happening).

It’s a thing you get attuned to, recognizing when you’ve got your friend mostly back and can actually start talking to them, because their anxiety has stopped screaming at them to just act like they’re fine and they shouldn’t burden you, while they’re also hyperventilating.

So when Brian just _sags_ against his shoulder and into his embrace, exhausted, Jonah knows the worst is through.

He does get concerned, though, when the first actual thing Brian gets out is

“Jesus Jonah I’m the worst. I think I’ve committed the worst breach of trust and I _can’t tell you about it._ ”

But at least it’s Brian talking, not the anxiety attack, even if he sounds so tired and disappointed in himself. All Jonah can do is keep holding him, brushing his hair and whispering a constant, hopefully comforting stream of “ _I don’t know what you think you’ve done, Bri, but you’re okay, you’re good and would never hurt someone on purpose, we’ll deal with it in the morning_.”

__________________

In the morning, Brian does the one reasonable thing you can do when you stumble across your co-worker and long-time crush’s side gig in _internet porn_ :

He calls in sick.

Look he just… he just needs a few days. To cope. To convince himself he’s not an irredeemable monster who has committed a terrible breach of privacy, the actual 8th deadly sin of the modern era: looking at leaked nudes.

When he rationally deconstructs the situation, tries to look at it how his lawyer-brother might, he knows it’s not actually his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. But he still feels guilty. Yes, he feels guilty for seeing those thumbnails, for even going as far as opening the website in the first place, for the fact that he got hard before he even thought to slam his laptop shut.

But most of all, he feels guilty that whatever guilt he feels is not enough to make him not want to look at the videos. It’s a vicious cycle.

The little voice tempting him to just have another look, to _at least have something worth feeling guilty about_ is quickly banished to the darkest depths of his mind, because that’s the devil talking. Or the entitlement from being raised a middle-class cis white man talking. Same difference, really.

So yeah, he calls Tara, lets her know he’s not doing well, doesn’t really elaborate past that, but gets two days off nonetheless. It might be weird to want to give your boss a bouquet of flowers, but Tara’s complete disinterest in excuses absolutely warrants it. _You got sick days? You’re free to use ‘em, I don’t care if you’re faking_ seems to be her guiding philosophy, and Brian’s never been this grateful for a boss in his life.

Now, Brian never took Philosophy 101 in college, doesn’t know enough about all the different ethical theories to really break down this problems to its composite parts. No, instead he took Intro to Biochem, because it was a different life, he had different plans in life, and the TA was hot. Biochem is not even remotely useful right now.

Still, even with knowing nothing about philosophy, Brian can tell when he’s stuck in a moral conundrum. And the only way to get out of it is to make choices, and stand by them. This is _terrifying_. None of the choices are particularly appealing, and all of them are stressful as hell for him.

a) He can try his hardest to forget, act like nothing happened and try to move on. Lacking a Men in Black-style Neuralyzer, this option is going to stress him the fuck out for a long time, but at least no one else gets involved. 3/10, might get a stress-induced ulcer.

b) He can lean into the mistake, look at the videos, and then act like nothing happened. This option doesn’t just include invading Pat’s privacy, probably lying about it and _probably getting caught lying about it_ , it also includes Brian absolutely hating himself forever. -10000/10, what the fuck.

And finally…

c) He can try to override every anxious impulse in his body and openly talk to Pat about it. He can actually own up to the mistake he made, apologize, assure Pat he didn’t mean to invade his privacy like that, and he can actually be a fucking adult about this. A solid 7/10, he’ll probably have a panic attack and maybe lose a friend, but he might feel less like dying. And Pat deserves to know.

Not only does Pat deserve to know about Brian’s discovery, he also deserves that Brian stops semi-ghosting him. It’s just been hard to work up the courage to respond to the texts Pat sends him over the day. They’re the same as always, casual, no real hint that Pat knows he’s faking being ill, knows he’s hiding something. Still, Brian doesn’t answer.

From: Pat (10:43AM)  
Hey man, heard youre out sick, that sucks  
Get well soon  
From: Pat (05:56PM)  
I guess you’re sleeping it off lol  
Lmk if I can get you sth  
(06:19PM)  
The day is officially over so i can officially say: uneventful

From: Pat(10:32PM)  
hey so i just got off of my stream and haven’t heard from u in a bit  
I don’t wanna pry but is everything ok? I’m a bit worried  
From: Pat (10:34PM)  
like a total nerd haha

Brian hates himself, just a little bit. Or maybe more than a little bit. He should just answer. He should come clean. But the sooner he does, the sooner Pat knows what he did, the sooner their relationship will change.

There is no guarantee that Pat will take the news well. There’s also no guarantee that he will hate Brian, and then Brian will quit, because he’s in love with Pat and can’t handle hurting him or making him uncomfortable through his presence alone. But Brian has a long, proud history of catastrophizing, and he’s not about to stop now—wait. He… He’s in love with Pat.

“Fuck,” he whispers, half-cocooned in his blankets.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he repeats.

There’s no two ways about it. Brian’s been consciously referring to his feelings as his “stupid co-worker crush” for ages, trying to keep himself from getting more emotionally invested. And somehow he fucked it up spectacularly.

He needs to come clean. He probably also needs a shower. He has been wallowing in bed for a while.

Before he really has time to panic even more, before his anxiety gets the better of him he shoots Pat a message.

To: Pat (11:08PM)  
Sorry! Been in a weird place all day  
Can you come over sometime tomorrow?  
Or I can come to yours!  
I kinda wanna talk thru something w you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a disclaimer bc it's purposefully unclear for a while: Bri's not freaking out bc Pat did sex work, he's feeling guilty for invading his privacy  
> Also I tried so hard to find the softest possible phrasing for "we need to talk" bc everyone knows that's the most terrifying message you can get

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end notes, traveler. You've made it this far through the dregs of my subconscious. Comments are moderated and more than welcome, and a lot of people will be able to clock me from my formatting so I just wanna say I'm sorry. Written in a manic episode at 1am  
> There will be more of this. Tentative plan is 3ish chapters, w Bri coming in in the next one!
> 
> SINCE Y'ALL MOTHERFUCKERS DECIDED TO BE ALL SWEET AND SUPPORTIVE AND SHIT I'M TAKING THIS BABY OFF ANON.   
> Find me on toddwhyard.tumblr.com which I Just Made, and feel free to shoot me a message to ask for my main 
> 
> The title is from the mountain goats, as all titles should be. My entire ass is exposed


End file.
